Transcendence

“Signore Barone!” Luisotti cries, throwing his hands toward heaven. “You are a savior.”

“I’m afraid I do have some bad news,” Signore Barone says, his mustache drooping as his face falls. “Signorina Catalani’s instrument has sustained some damage on this trip.”

The rest of our troupe gathers around the cart as he lifts my damaged cello case and sets it on the ground. Even above the din of the ferry dock you can hear an audible gasp as my fellow musicians see the ragged hole in the top of the case that reveals the splintered head of the instrument my parents had spent their life savings to buy.

“Can it be fixed?” I cry against all hope. I look around the circle at the faces full of pity that are turned toward me.

Signora Luisotti reaches over and puts her arm around me. “Perhaps,” she says. “But, Clarissa, it will never be the same.”

“She’s right,” Signore Barone says, leaning over to get a better look. “Damage like this would forever affect the quality of the tone.”

“What am I to do?” I ask. If I have no instrument, I’ll be sent home from the tour, and my dreams of playing in a truly world-class orchestra will be forever extinguished. I can’t go back to our village now that I’ve had just the smallest taste of success. Hot tears pull at the backs of my eyes.

Alessandra puts her arm around my shoulders, and it is all I can do not to cry into her new traveling jacket. “Hush,” she says, her voice as soothing as her playing always is. “For tonight and until we can get this matter resolved, you will play your parts on my cello. We are onstage together only for the divertimento, so that is the one piece that will have to be reworked.”

I look up at her. “I can’t do that.” Each instrument is as individual as a fingerprint, and having her make such a sacrifice is unthinkable.

“Nonsense,” she insists. “I will hear of no argument. And while this isn’t Genoa, there must be an instrument in this city that will serve our purposes, at least in the short term.”

“But,” I start, wishing that it were all as easy as it sounds, “we … I cannot possibly pay for another cello.”

Alessandra waves the thought away as if it is a trifle. “My father will be glad to help,” she says. Signore Barone looks as if he is going to protest, but she continues quickly. “And we can work out some sort of payment plan as the tour progresses. Right, Papa?”

Signore Barone’s face wears an expression of resigned exhaustion. “Of course, my dear,” he says. He leans over and kisses her cheek. “Whatever you wish.”

She smiles broadly at him. “Then it’s settled,” she says. She turns to Paolo, standing between the two of us throughout the exchange, his eyes locked on her in an expression of adoration. “Now, what about the assistance I was promised?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the living room.

Veronique smiles like nothing happened. “It’s static. I attract it like crazy.” She reaches out and puts a finger gently on the back of my hand. “See? It’s gone now.”

“Right,” I manage. “Static.” I swallow hard and try to slow my breathing. The black notes on the page look like ants, and make about as much sense right this minute. “Which phrase was it again?”

Veronique points to the music with her bow, this time keeping a careful distance between the two of us. “The transition here, to this D sharp.”

It takes everything I have to concentrate on the paper in front of me. “It’s like this.” I show her the fingering while my mind races with images of carriages and a broken cello. Veronique doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong as we finish the lesson.

I close the door behind her just as Mom calls from the kitchen. “Hey, can you go out and grab the garbage cans? I forgot to bring them in when I got home.”

Still a little shaky, I call back, “Yeah. No problem.”

As I walk down the steps to the street, I try to think about what I was doing when the visions happened. Something is triggering them, but it seems so random that I can’t figure out what. Grabbing the can, I turn to wheel it up the curb when I see Griffon sitting on the planter box next to our stairs.

I jump back, losing my balance on the curb. “God! You scared me!”

“Sorry,” he says, standing up and walking toward me. “I didn’t mean to. Baseball practice was canceled today, so I thought I’d come by.”

“It’s okay,” I say, stepping back onto the sidewalk. I glance up at his face and know I’m not going to be able to keep the grin off mine. “You could have knocked, you know. You didn’t have to sit out here.”

“I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your lesson. You play beautifully. Kat wasn’t exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cello. Earlier. I heard you playing just before Veronique came.” He points to the half-opened bay window in the living room.

I glance irritably at the window, wondering who else in the neighborhood heard me. I can’t believe he spent the last half hour just sitting down here. “Thanks. But I didn’t know anyone could hear me.” I think for a second. “And how did you know her name?”

“Veronique? You told me. At the restaurant. You said she’s your Thursday at four.”

“Did I?”

He shrugs. “I have a pretty good memory. Here, let me help you.” Griffon grabs the other two cans and follows me to the side of the house, where we park them up against the ivy. As we start to walk away, one can begins to roll toward the sidewalk.

“Whoa!” Griffon yells, and reaches around me to stop it. As he does, his shoulder bumps mine and my eyesight gets fuzzy just for a moment.

The window is nothing more than a narrow slit looking over the courtyard. I sit on the wide stone ledge, my forehead pressed into the small space, watching people come and go down below. Everything inside is screaming, but my outside is calm, my hands folded neatly among the folds of my gown.

I blink, and see Griffon watching me intently. “Has that been happening a lot?” he asks quietly.

“What?” I shake my head to clear it. I can feel beads of panicky sweat trickle down my back.

“That,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “You were somewhere else, weren’t you? Just for a second.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, running my hands over my hair.

Griffon steps closer. “You said it in the Armouries Cafe the day we met. The feelings of deja vu. The blackouts. Strange feelings. Experiencing things you couldn’t possibly have seen.” He bends down until I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. The sensation causes me to inhale sharply. “Look, you don’t have to hide it from me,” he says softly. “I get it. I understood the minute I met you in London. I’ve been there. I can help.”

Tears fill my eyes as I look up at him. I thought things were getting better, but they aren’t. I didn’t leave the visions in London—they’ve followed me here, and are happening more and more often. The thought that Griffon might really understand is overwhelming. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, part of me wanting to run inside and slam the door and make it all go away. But I know it’s not going away. I have to find a way to deal with what’s happening.

“Can you come out for a little while?” he asks. “We need to be alone if we’re going to talk.”

I shake my head. “No. I … um … I’m waiting for a friend to come over.” Rayne and I are supposed to go to the movies at the Red Vic, but that all seems so far away right now.

“It won’t take long,” he says. He indicates the house. “I think someone’s worried.”

I look up in time to see Dad pulling back the curtains in his office that overlooks the front of the house. I wave at him and he tentatively waves back, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Griffon.

Griffon turns back to me. “If you want help—if you want answers, then come with me. If not, then go back in the house and I won’t talk to you about this again. But just know that what’s happening to you isn’t going to stop. It’s only going to get worse.”

Answers. What kind of rational answers can he possibly give me for what’s been happening? Just the